The Reliever

During our last English lesson, we were instructed to create a story about the best possible experience you could have with a reliever. It had to be at least 500 words in length, realistic, and on our blogs by Tuesday. So, here I am, writing up my story. This is what I wrote.

Last block, Friday afternoon. It's common knowledge that it is hopeless to even try to produce anything in that dreaded, impossibly long, seventy-five minutes. The only thing you could do, was nothing.
Earlier that morning it had absolutely poured. Our P.E. lesson had been composed of our class trudging belligerently through the mud; cold rain drenching you, extinguishing your hope, ragged breath burning your throat, and puncturing your lungs.
We were all well and truly beat.
Fatigued, exhausted, drained, just bloody knackered. We were still damp and could see nothing but Friday night ahead.
We milled about outside the English classroom. Our bodies and minds simply dead-beat, facial expressions falling where they may. Leaning against walls, doors, and each other, inwardly, counting down the moments until we were free.

Maybe it was because we weren't making any noise, but the footsteps sounded unusually loud as a teacher made their way up the corridor. A reliever. At least getting away with nothing would be easier this lesson. What a relief.
The teacher unlocked the door, pinned it back, and went inside. The class walked in, took their seats, and waited. Nothing out of the ordinary. The sky had cleared, and the sun had been injecting heat into our dreary existence since mid-morning. The rain-water was half way through evaporating, and the air was heated and thick. The usually chilly classroom was now a pleasant temperature, the same temperature, in fact, as a warm, soft bed...

The teacher said his name was Mr. Richards. I wondered vaguely if 'mister' was really his first name. He told us in a stern and lifeless voice, that perfectly matched his appearance, to refrain from speaking and to get our books out. I guess we could manage that. No use playing up too soon, not until we knew his boundaries.
Books open, pens in hand, and minds full of cotton wool. With eye-lids drooping, we directed our mutual stare nebulously to the front of the class.
He had black and greying hair that was long, but not too long. He also was proud owner of a pair of very thick, dark eyebrows that came together at the slightest frown.
You could tell we were a little apprehensive.
He wouldn't. He couldn't. Don't try and tell me he actually wants to make us work!
Wasn't he aware of his placing in the hierarchy of school life? He had no binding power, no real control. Heck, I'd never even seen him before.
'Pens at the ready. Now dictate the following,' He began.
Come on Richards, this isn't 19th century England.
'Ignorance is a state of mind.' He said slowly and precisely. 'A very costly state at that, and one that, at all costs, should be avoided.'
Are you kidding me? This is meant to be an English class.
'New sentence. You are all ignorant. I am a adult, and have a great moustache, thus I am far more superior to you. Now, repeat for emphasis.'
Someone blew their nose. No one knew how to react. Most of us probably weren't writing it down anyway.
'Copy what I write on the board, thank you.' He pulled a marker from the breast pocket of his brown suede jacket and took two steps toward the Smartboard. No one said anything as he wrote on the screen of the board.
I've got you now, is what he had scrawled. Then he started laughing hysterically, eyebrows dancing, his hands to his head.
My mind was trying unsuccessfully to reel. The cog of thought was slow and ungreased; confusion and questions simply refused to come. So I shrugged, and decided to enjoy the haze.
Then, we all continued to stare blankly at the man before us, who was emitting an extremely strange noise.
Slowly, he reached around to the back of his head. The sound of a zip was just audible. The facade that had been Mr. Richards fell to the floor, revealing a cackling Ms. Wilson.
'I've got you now!' She shrieked, rubbing her hands together with glee. Her eyes darted from one gaping face to another. You could see her mind running through all the possible punishments, eyes alight with a sickening joy.
Then suddenly, her manically giggling form began to fade and blur, like a far off object finally coming into focus.

'Good sleep, honey?' A kind-faced, elderly teacher asked. I blinked, and looked around the classroom. The air was still and warm, and everyone's expression was bleary-eyed but strangely rested.
The teacher had let us sleep through the whole lesson.

Without a doubt, that's definitely the best thing that could ever happen with a reliever.

Social Science Test

The day I returned back to school from Fiji, we had two tests. A maths and a Social Science. The S.S. test ended up being more about initiative than the definitions etc. that we had learnt. I was worried that I would not get a good mark, though, because I didn't even finish my essay. I am usually one of the last to finish any test, not because I don't understand the content, but I tend to take my good time. I only wrote two paragraphs and a conclusion, so I thought that would definitely bring my marks down. My wonderful and intelligent friends reassured me, 'it wasn't an English test, it will be marked on the content, not the structure'.
Still, I was genuinely fretting about my results, so when I was informed that I got 94%, it was a pleasant surprise.
This is the essay that I wrote for the test, the topic was, Developed nations have a responsibility to developing nations.

Developed nations have a responsibility to developing nations because they, to a certain degree, are the reason for the developing nations' positions on the global scale. For centuries, the countries that are the known as super-powers today, have had advantages that have lead to their developed state. Whether it be land mass, a large population, or even just their country's position on Earth, today's global-powers, say America or China, have had the resources to develop. Which is what they have done, to a huge extent. Now they have the resources available to help developing nations, and they are in a stable enough position that their charity would not negatively effect them.

I believe developed nations have a responsibility towards developing nations in the context of humanity. The majority of America are currently living in the lap of luxury. Children have top-class education readily available, and nearly everyone has access to a good supply of food and water. Then you look at Fiji, where people are struggling to find food to eat, and shelter is anything but sufficient. How can the U.S.A. spend millions of dollars on junk-food each year, when there are populations around the world dying from starvation and exposure? I believe that developed nations have a moral obligation towards developing nations.

Developed nations have a responsibility towards developing nations because of a number of reasons. I strongly believe this and have conveyed this to you through two reasons: the fact that developed nations are, in part, the reason for developing nations' positions, and also that in the context of humanity and moral, they have the resources available to help them, so they should.

Re-writing this essay-thing I notice that I used the word 'reason' three times in my pathetic excuse for a conclusion. In the hard-copy, I also put developing and developed the wrong way around in a sentence, which contradicted everything else I had written. This is certaintly not my best work, and I believe I could have produced something much more accurate and impressive if I had had more time, and acess to some country demographics. I'm just saying.

The other mistake I made was in the question section. I wrote that a country's G.N.P. was only one of many development indicators, not that it also didn't represent the whole populations' (everyone's) wealth.

The Riddle of the 5mm Drill-bit

I was sorting through my bookshelf earlier this evening, when a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and opened it curiously. Inside was a page from my Term 1 Business Studies book. Written on it was the answer to the riddle of the 5mm drill-bit.
I was struck by a sudden inspiration to write a blog entry about it, so here goes.

I don't currently aspire to go into business as an adult, yet I am taking two terms of Business Studies this year, and I am really enjoying it.
I'm not totally sure why I chose to take Business Studies. Yes, it sounded interesting, and was more appealing and practical than art or music. But now I am so glad that I am taking it. I am learning so much, and as a customer, I am an important part of the business world, so being educated on fundamental business information and tactics is beneficial, and will continue to be. This subject also sets me up to take Accounting or Economics next year, if I feel the need.

The riddle:
A man walks into a hardware store and asks for a 5mm drill-bit [the bit that goes at the end of a drill]. The shop assistant replies, 'I could sell you a 5mm drill-bit, but you don't want a 5mm drill-bit.'

Why would he say such a thing, isn't it his job to sell hardware products?
When I first heard this I was confused. Cassandra, who was sitting opposite me, was like, Hold up. Say what?
But not really, because she doesn't talk like that. Anyway.
As the teacher talked us through the explanation, understanding dawned upon me, like a veil slowly being pulled from my eyes.

The man didn't want a 5mm drill-bit, he wanted a 5mm hole.
Why did he want a 5mm hole? To fill with a 5mm screw.
Why did he want a 5mm hole filled with a screw?
Because he wanted to build something.

Businesses aim to meet the needs and wants of their customers. Every business owner needs to be enterprising, and look beyond the commodity they are going to sell, to the need or want that they are going to meet.
Yes, the main goal of nearly every business is to earn money, but to earn money you have to satisfy the needs and/or wants of consumers. Customers provide the fuel that keeps a business going, so to be successful in business you need to provide something that is in demand by them. It is the customer you are always aiming to please, and to survive in the world of business, you have to please them.

A Funny Story

We were told to write a funny story about something that has occurred in our class this year. I am actually quite glad that we got this task, because I think I need the practice when it comes to writing normal events creatively and interestingly. This is what I came up with.

The science lesson began like any other. Every face alight with joy, eagerly awaiting the class ahead. We all walked in silently, quietly removed our books from our bags and walked quickly to our desks. No-one wanted to miss a second of learning when it came to the study of Ecology. The lesson was filled with the sound of pens scratching, and the teacher telling us everything we wanted to hear. The clock ticked by, and we all absorbed the information like the sponges we were.
Then, suddenly, the teacher announced a surprise definition test. The students mouths opened slightly and worried expressions took up residence on their faces. You could read the single thought traveling through everyone of their minds, it was as clear as the text in a book on advanced molecular theory. But I haven't even studied!
Of course no one made a comment, questioning a teacher's ability and talking back to them, we all felt, was a filthy habit.
The sound of pages turning and pens clicking nervously rose through the air. The entire atmosphere was disconcerting. People flicked glances at one another, exchanging their mutual understanding. If anyone got less than perfect, their would be a long road to recovery.

'The first word is 'Chemical Exchange'.
I literally felt the relief ease into the room like a sigh. This wasn't going to be the disaster we had all envisioned.
We didn't realise how wrong we could be.
The terms kept coming, getting more difficult by the letter, it seemed. A lot of the words were unknown to us, and a feeling of hysteria and distress was building in the classroom.
People were starting to break down.
Drew was holding his head in his hands, close to tears. Not knowing the answers had just proved too much.
Soon enough, panicked conversation was bubbling up and over the teacher's voice in an inappropriate style usually not connected to our science class.
The teacher was surprised, her class were always such angels.
No one knew what letter she was up to anymore- it was chaos.
The teacher's voice rose above the tumult.
'I am on 'P'!' She said, 'I am on 'P'!

*

Our class was never the same after that event. Nearly getting told off had deeply affected us all. The next science lesson came and went, and some people even talked when the teacher was talking!
I knew it had been a traumatising event, but I had no idea it would drive people to such extremities.

Fiji-now

I must say the trip didn't start with a bang. Our flight was delayed three hours and so we were boarding the plane when we would have been arriving in Fiji. On the plane we weren't just offered a choice of 'chicken or fish', but vegetarian as well. It was an outstanding moment in pane-food history. I watched the Bucket List on the trip over, which was quite good, and had a very satisfying ending; I just love it when the last line is perfect.

We did end up arriving, finally, in Nadi airport, to greet my distressed father who had just seen our flight information change from Delayed to Indefinitely Delayed, and was waiting for Missing to crop up next.

Outside, the light was fading and the softest rain was falling. I breathed in the smells and the warm air and tried to store a bit of the surroundings in my mind. The airport car park had always been a site full of anticipation, seeing as we were always there right at the beginning of our trips. We drove to the hotel, the troubles of our delay now a story to laugh about. We were finally here.

The next day started with breakfast by the pool, but soon after we were off, on our two hour drive up to the farm. I really enjoyed the drive up, soaking up all the achingly familiar sites. The drive flew by, and soon we caught our first glimpse of the castle. Over the bay, still about twenty minutes drive away, we saw Cagi-Cagi Hill. Pronounced thang-ee-thang-ee, it means windy.
Windy Hill. And atop this hill, on a flattened summit was an unmoving block of grey. A fortress, a triumph against all odds. And as soon as we had glimpsed it, it was gone. The bays were beautiful and the shouts from the villages cheerful, but all faded slightly in anticipation to our first meeting with Mahevu Fortress.
We soon pulled into Namaquamaqua Road and knew it was less than four kilometres away. Those four thousands metres were a very rocky and pot-holed lot, because the roads have been in a steep decline ever since the coup of 2006.
Over one hill, another glimpse. And introduction so tantalisingly gradual. Another rise, then down again. Then, up just on more short incline, around a small rock wall and high bushes of flax and it was there. BulaMoce Farm. Just sittin' up there and demanding awe. My breathing was slow and shallow as we trundled up the drive, slowing to a stop metres before the roller door. I hopped out quickly and just stared at it in marvel. The only sound was the incessant breeze pushing it's way through the acres and acres of virgin bush surrounding us, and the Fijian flag flapping in the wind. I touched the cement, its surface warm and smooth. I walked around the castle, trailing my hand along the walls. The view was as startlingly stunning as it had always been. The piggery from the old days of Maximus and Hudini (two of our pigs) was still there, the same as ever.
Now that I was here, all the time from two years away was catching up with me. Last time I was here I had been twelve. There's a big difference between twelve and fourteen. My dad's partner's family had a new, 11 month- old member named Diana. Joanne (named after my mother) would nearly be 6. Timo (the eldest son) would be a true young boy now, going to school and everything.
I finally realised how much I had missed Fiji, and how much I love the country. I love it all, and love all the places I have been, the experiences I have had, and all the times that are now stories and memories. Fiji exposed me to a different way of life very young, and I am so, so glad for that. This aspect of my life has really helped shape me into who I am, and I am so thankful for my parents for making it possible. Going to Fiji has made me realise how lucky we are, and oh-so frivolous and shallow sometimes.
We don't just go to a resort and swim, and have a holiday, we live pretty much the normal Fijian lifestyle, and having that has kept me from becoming the sheltered young girl I could have been. We've been through a lot, and it hasn't all been good, but everything's been worth it. All seemingly leading up to when I lifted my gaze to the sky and span around in the courtyard, arms outstretched, wanting to encompass it all, but happy for what was now. Leading up to lying on my parents' bed at the end of the one long room we lived in, seeing Jack and Jedd and dad on the couch, and mum drinking coffee at the table. The castle was now a home.

Originally this was meant to be a recount of sorts, just outlining what I did over there for the six days. But, as I seem to be doing a lot lately, I got carried away and never ended up leaving the castle. If you keep reading you might be lucky enough to actually find out what happened!

All my thoughts are questions, and now I'm questioning my thoughts

The other day my friends and I had, what I would call, a rather profound conversation. But maybe conversation is the wrong word to use, seeing as it consisted mostly of questions.
What is time? I asked no-one in particular.
What is memory? What is thought? If the universe is constantly expanding, what is it expanding into?
These questions, and our entire exchange of words had been set off by our chemistry class earlier that morning. Everything is made up up of atoms. A fact. Atoms are the smallest division of anything, of everything. If you divide an atom any more, it no longer is that thing. An atom is made up of sub-atomic particles. A nucleus consisting of positively charged protons and neutrons. Fact.
Moving around the nucleus are electrons (or in Hydrogen's case, a electron), moving so fast they create a cloud around the nucleus. But between the the nucleus as the electron, what is there? A vacuum. Space.
Our science teacher told us that if the nucleus was the size of an apple, the electron would be five football fields away. Space. Nothingness. That is what an atom mostly is. And atoms make up everything.
So everything is mostly space.
This fact did not enlighten me at all. It only made me realise how little I know. Our conversation made me realise how little I am, how insignificant I am in the scheme of things. Our entire galaxy, our world and existence, is insignificant when placed in a juxtaposition with the size of the universe, the sheer enormity. When you start to realise that we are not the world, and the universe does not revolve around us, things a put into perspective, or possibly, out of perspective.
But who was it that said, Wisdom is knowing how much you don't know ? While this is true, I think wisdom is a lot of things; experience, ignorance, your attitude, how you perceive things. I wrote ignorance right now to acknowledge the 'ignorance of youth'. Not so much the hormonal youth of the teen years, don't take it personally, but we all seem to be one or a combination of the following. Thinking we know it all, not caring at all, or knowing and caring about all the wrong things.
No, I'm talking about the people that are new to the world, and have only had a few years to figure things out. There hasn't been enough time in their life to learn what we have, or to see and hear the things we have. Their innocence and blissful ignorance don't last forever; a temporary state. I believe this is a type of wisdom, because the way they perceive things, and their view on life is refreshing, and beautifully simple.
The word 'ignorance' is probably not the correct term. However, I think I have explained what I mean by it.
Ignorance; not knowing. Paint me into a slightly bigger picture, and I'm self-admittedly ignorant. And that's not blissful at all.
What is it that people say, fear is only the unknown?
I don't think innocence is the right word either, because that implies that our world somehow dirties their minds as they understand it slightly more, and makes them guilty, and I don't think that at all.

In Leonardo da Vinci's five point technique, he did indeed state, Ask questions all the time
All the people we consider to be the symbol of genius have questioned widely accepted knowledge, re-written facts, discovered new things about the world. You don't do those things by walking the beaten track.

The most frustrating thing is that most of these questions have answers, but some of the answers we wouldn't even understand, and some answers we have little hope of ever finding.
When we discussing all these things, feelings of unsettling confusion and hopelessness settled upon us.
We only use about 2% of our brain. Do we feel this way, this inner turmoil, this insecurity and frustration, just because we cannot physically comprehend these things, and that the answers to these questions are simply beyond us?

Mere Minutes

The wrong side of town. That's what you'd call it. You'd hear the police sirens at night time, and you'd read all about it in your morning paper. You'd sip your cup of tea, and sigh, ever so grateful that you weren't one of them.
I walk this way every morning. First I pass one of the many night-clubs, it's cheap fluorescent lights still flickering. I walk under the street-lights, their poles smeared with graffiti. I wonder what scenes those lights had witnessed in the dark hours of the night. Each alley way I pass is the same. Their inky shadows leaking onto the sidewalk. The smell of rot, seething. Decaying bodies, decaying moral. The rats will still feed on whatever they can find. A woman in a a red leather top and ripped fishnets stumbles past, her Wallmart heels in hand.
'Mornin' honey,' she says. Her lipstick and eye make-up are smudged, and I try not to think of what she saw last night.
A truck drives passed, it's engine hardly making a sound. It was a nice machine, worth more than a couple of lives around these parts. Either way, it was a bit too nice. It's tinted windows reflected my dilapidated home.
The truck suddenly screeched to a halt, no more than fifty metres away. Then it just sat there, rims still turning, in the middle of the pot-holed, deserted street. I forced myself to relax. It was probably just some gangsters trying a scare tactic.
That was when the door opened. Never has such a simple gesture seemed so ominous. A body came next, forcefully shoved from the vehicle. The man lay awkwardly on the ground, but from what I could gleam he was still alive.
I backed against the filthy, decrepit walls. Bile bubbled in my stomach, burning hot. I deep voice rang out from the car, 'Get up,'.
The man on the road scrambled to his feet, where he stood, shaking, but not for long. One shot. Two. Bang, bang. Their echo as sharp as a rusted dagger. I looked up and down the street. I urged my solitary figure into the wall behind me. Fear scratched at my entire being. Headlines raced in and out of mind, kind of like a bullet flying through my skull.
Witness Shot Dead. Young Woman's Corpse Found.
I imagined the middle class population reading about my contribution to the death-toll, tutting with fake sympathy between bites of toast.

I heard laughter coming from the open door, a sound so vicious, so brutally inhumane, that it sliced through all my thoughts. The murderer's unrestrained vindictive joy was like a flame, eating at my soul. Any innocence I had retained had dissipated. Dripping into the cracks of the road like blood, to dry, and slowly flake away. Just gone. Like the corpse's life in front of me. One pull of the trigger had stalled his beating heart, and had left his eyes staring skywards, but never seeing.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three more shots to the lifeless form on the ground. Each noise repelling heat from my body.
I was now as cold and unfeeling as the gun in his hand.
I ran back the way I had come, hoping against hope that I could run though time, and somehow escape what I had seen.

Time Marches On

What did you do last Friday? Well, since that was a rhetorical question and this is my blog, I'll tell you what I did. I went to Fiji. But before I get into telling you what I did over there, I think it is appropriate to tell you a little about my family's history regarding Fiji and our previous experiences over there.

I've been travelling over to Fiji regularly my entire childhood. My dad bought free-hold (that means he owns it completely and legally, it isn't leased, like the majority of the land over there) land over there in 1997, and built a house over there in '98. Now don't start thinking about flash houses with pools and unnecessary rooms; this was a farm house. The 25 acres of land is for our business Mahevu Farm.
(Just so you know Mahevu means 'newly occupied land' in Tongan', ironic enough for you?)
The correct word is probably orchid, because we grow noni trees.
Noni is a traditional Pacific medicine. What we do (well, mostly my dad and workers) is pick the fruit and put it into tanks to ferment. It decomposes and turns into a juice, like wine. It isn't sweet or nice-tasting at all, but it is really good for you. We also dry and mill the leaves for powders and teas, which taste a little nicer. Noni has been scientifically tested, and from that little technical details that I know, it aids and stimulates the release of endorphins (the chemical that makes you happy). It also helps with severe illnesses, and while it hasn't been proven to cure cancer, one of our customers who had cancer, started drinking noni, and they lived past their life expectancy by six months, and their quality of life was much improved.
Anyhow, during the military coup of 2006 our house was burnt down in an arson attack.

My father had started brewing beer in the house to save money. He always supplied his workers with a 'cold one' at the end of a long, arduous dayin the hills and this was a lot more cost-effective. The men from the local village were aware of this.
Before I carry on I think I will just say that Fiji is a hard place to live. It's environment and culture can often been cruel, and it's a very 'take what you can get' lifestyle a lot of the time. Those of you who have been fortunate enough to have been there might have experienced locals trying to 'rip you off', or people begging in the street. It's well known that they can see tourists as people they'll never see again, so try and get whatever they can from them. I can totally understand this, and it makes me sad that they have to be driven to it. For example, my mother witnessed beggars in the streets of the city poking their babies with pins so they would cry, and passers-by would feel more sorry for them, so, hopefully, they could reap a greater profit. I asked my dad last week if he considered Fiji a developing country. He answered, 'I think it's a third world country.'

They broke into the house. 'They' being men my father had employed and paid well through Fiji's incessant job draught. 'They' being men who had held me as a young girl, who I had talked and joked with, eaten beside. They broke into the house and held a party up at the hill. Then they spent four days clearing the house of all the furniture and equipment. I'm sure they left the family photos on the wall. Then one of them lit a match.
The house burnt to the ground.
On December 11th 2006 the house on the hill was no more.
Why would they do such a thing? As far as I know, it's to do with a grudge as old as my dad's time in Fiji. The local villagers were sure that one of their men would become my dad's partner, but when he chose someone from a different village, they were not impressed. Nothing was mentioned, but it obviously wasn't forgotten.

My dad is no ordinary man. He took the news hard, he is human, after all, but he didn't give up.
He would not, and could not, let them get to him.
One month after the flames had licked the walls of our house, and the windows had smashed, and smoke had billowed into the sky, the beginnings of a castle were standing tall on top of the hill.
Soon after, Mahevu Fortress dominated the the land. A sign nailed to a palm tree at the gate reads, BulaMoce Farm, or Hello-Goodbye Farm.
My father had built a castle out of pre-cast concrete. Complete with twelve foot high walls made of six inch thick cement, castellation features, and a Fijian flag, flying proudly.
Majestic. Amazing. A symbol of perseverance. An image that almost demands reverence.
Built to last a thousand years.

And definitely inflammable.

Bull Fight

When you hear the term 'bull fight', what picture comes to mind? What image storms into your consciousness? The bull. The raging, sanguinary beast. Its eyes deranged, nostrils flaring. The fight. The arena, full of cheering patrons, shamefully eager to see red from a source other than the matador's flag. The smell of sawdust and sweat swirl through the crowds. The air itself is charged, seemingly on the precipice of crackling with electricity.
I've never liked the bull fights. People's need for entertainment transforming grazing farm animals into a dangerous and terrified creature. These thoughts lingered in my mind as I walked the deserted streets. The sun was low in the sky. I could have been the last man on Earth if it wasn't for the sounds leaking over the top of the arena. The hooves scraping. The heavy breathing. The indescribable sound of collision and pain. The sonance form of the Mexican wave travel through space to meet my unwilling ears.
Crash. The sound of a man made prison giving way to the sheer force of nature. The sound of jeopardy approaching. The sound of hooves on cobblestone. Echoing from surface to surface until the noise surrounds me. The word is still. Freezing in the wake of the mammoth beast rounding the corner. Unlike the world around me, terror forces me to move. To run away. The water is red. I have no where else to go. Fear like acid, eating away at logic and thought. I launch myself into the water. As gravity pulls me through the surface, the sun finally sinks. The water turned to a fathomless black. I glance behind me. Hot air from a ringed noise meets me like a blow. I demerge in the water. My closed eyes still saw blazing eyes.

No, I 've never liked the bull fights much.

I thought beauty was only skin deep?

I can almost feel the joy from across the water radiating to this gloomy side of the river. Almost. Fire works decorate the sky. The pretties laughter drifts across the water. New Pretty Town. The only place I have ever wanted to be. A sigh escapes my too-small lips, and tears leak out my muddy-brown eyes, placed too close together on my ugly, ugly face. I shake my head; at least I wasn't stuck this way. What was it that the history teacher had said? The people that had lived before us hadn't even used the surgery, and the majority of people had lived their lives as uglies. I can feel frustration beginning to imbue upon my longing. And the self-hate, and the pity. I was sick of being ugly! My entire being yearned for pretty life. The parties, the cliques, the endless fun. The perfect, muscular body, and the perfect reflection in the mirror...
I leaned out the window, wanting to get as close as I could to the pretties and their world. I needed to get away from the drab dorm, the drab faces. My drab existence. The chilly air allowed me to imagine that I was in a hot-air balloon, a beautiful face smiling at me. I could feel the air rushing past me...
I opened my eyes and saw that the ground was no longer two stories away, but rushing toward me at an alarming speed.
A flash, a moment of blinding pain. Then blackness.

* * *

I opened my eyes, ebony unconsciousness biting at the edges of my vision. The world looked different. I realised that I wasn't lying in a heap at the bottom of my window, but lying in a portrait of a dream. A gorgeous girl was staring at me from the other side of window. I smiled, encompassed by her large, deep brown eyes. Her hair was that same rich colour, and her skin was flawless. I knew in that instant that I would do anything for her, and everything to be her. Then, through my happiness of simply being in the presence of a pretty, a thought, as dirty and as rank as sewage, leaked into my mind. I'm an ugly. I couldn't even comprehend what the pretty must be thinking. Behind her perfect facade, she must be grimacing. I raised my hands to my face, in a lame attempt to hide my revolting appearance.
A ripple of shock literally shook my body. That pretty was me. I was beautiful.
Joy fulled my perfect body, like a hot-air balloon inflating. I ran my fingers through my silky hair, a smile igniting my face, like the Mona Lisa in the right light. Any doubts about the operation that had transformed me, any rumours I had heard, any concerns about my past life, were overpowered by a haze that was settling on my brain. Like a thin sheet of wool being pulled over my eyes, softening the edges. I didn't care. I was pretty, and ready for my first glass of champagne and trip to the pleasure gardens. I was pretty, my mind was pretty, my life was pretty- and that was all that mattered.

For those of you that have read Uglies and/or the whole series will understand what I have just written. I have just finished Pretties, and am eagerly awaitng reading Specials. The series is written by Scott Westerfield, who has also written So Yesterday and the Midnighters trilogy. This series is a rather good read. Besides keeping you turning the page, they make you think. While the language is nice and simple, Wetserfiled craftily toys with some interesting concepts. If you've run out of books to read (a hardly likely idea) I do recommend that you give this series a look.

Describe a good friend

My last entry and this one are home-learning tasks set by our teacher. What we have to do is describe a person we know quite well (e.g. a parent) without describing their physical attributes. You aren't just supposed to tell people about them, though, you're meant to make they reader feel as if they know them. It is actually quite challenging. I didn't totally get it in my first attempt. I was more describing our relationship, and what she is like as a mother. I don't really think of her as a person, you know. Mum is what she is to me. But this time we had to describe a good friend, and this is what I did.

I walk with her to and from school nearly everyday, and we never run out of things to say. It almost seems as if we have our own language, because we talk so fast and seem to know what the other is feeling. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her (she can seriously maim you with a pen if she wants to) because her temper can flare and she can get feisty. She hands out on the hot rod scene with the best of 'em, but is also a graceful and talented dancer. She'll laugh at an inside joke from years ago, and laugh into hysteria right by your side. She's the sort of person who will come over to your house just to straighten your hair. She listens to everyone one of the million things I have to say. She takes on my obsessions, (she'll now forever be annoyed by grammar errors) and she will run around in the blazing heat just because you wanted to join the cross country team. But sometimes our words aren't even needed; we can share opinions and agree on things with just a glance. We've never fought in all the years we've known each other.
Ma amie. My comrade. My chum. My friend.

Home-Learning Task

Her voice is the first thing I hear in the morning. I blink bleary-eyed at her as she says, 'Morning, love,'.
She's my mum, and she can make everything alright. She knows me inside out, at times convincing me she knows more about me than I do. The sounds of her footsteps late at night is the most reassuring of lullabies. The light drifting from her studio in the kitchen like a night light is as comforting as her sitting at the end of my bed. Her arms wrapping me into a hug take me to a safe place, from where I will emerge more positive. The scent of turpentine and wet paint creates a picture of her in my mind. She makes sure I do not immerse myself solely in the logic side of life. The way she looks at the world, the pure creativity and talent that she possesses, encourages and challenges me, helping me grow as surely as the orchids she tends to and adores. For someone I have spent my entire life with, describing her is proving to be an almost impossible task. What can I tell you? She is my home. She is the epitome of love and comfort, strength and safety and nurture. She is my mother.

People Aren't Made to Fly

We are doing Creative Writing this term in English. In our lesson today, our teacher, Ms. Wilson, told us why we do this topic and why it is so important. Creative writing is so important because it deals with being able to express yourself and, ultimately, being able to write in an effective manner. No matter what career you chose, during the course of getting the appropriate qualifications, you'll need to be able to write. You have to be able to explain yourself.
I realise all branches of English deals with those things in some way, but creative writing is a particularly interesting medium to do so. It pushes you (it certainly pushes me), because there are no concrete rights and wrongs. And topics can be as diverse and endless as your imagination.
Creative writing is good for getting things out (i.e. emotions, opinion, ideas) and also useful for preserving special experiences and memories.
A point that Ms. Wilson really stressed was the need to make the reader feel as if they are there. To accomplish that you have to be able to effectively and fluently translate the ideas and thoughts in your mind into words. You need to use the right syntax, wording, punctuation, and vocabulary to pull the reader to a place where what the words are representing exist, where they are not just letters on a page. So, as you can see, it is a very important branch of English.
Subsequently, we now have to post at least one piece of creative writing a week on our blogs.
I think this will be interesting because you will be able to see how you improve over the course of the term.

Today we were shown a photo of a man flying through the air with his bike in tow. The caption below instructed us to write a story imaging we were the person on the bike. It was interesting to see everyone's different takes on it. It should be aruond 250 words, our teacher said, and this story is 343. But as that guy wrote in that letter; I would have written less, had I had the time.

People Aren't Made to Fly

This was it. Those three words pounded in time with my racing heartbeat, a frantic mantra, reminding me of all that had led to this moment. I raised my eyes to the heavens, not in a gesture of last minute faith, but to admire the sky of unnaturally incandescent blue.

I eventually pulled my eyes back to reality; back to now. Fear lurched within me.
My gaze kept falling, traveling down the steep and ruthless hill.
What had I gotten myself into?

The crowd that had gathered was getting restless. The had come here to see a coward or a hero, they didn’t care which. But what about the other option? What about that high chance of a painful and shaming demise? Your bones shattering on the pavement...

Whatever happened, it was too late now. Either way, I’d still be known as The Guy Who Didn’t Do It.
My mouth felt bone-dry. I desperately needed to breathe. I couldn't fly off a ramp at high speed if I couldn’t breathe. Okay. In. Out. There’s no time like the present.

Suddenly the wind was knocked out of me and was soaring around me. The ramp was getting closer by the second. I was so close to being dead broke, I could not afford to hesitate.

Then I was flying, flying; instinct and practice taking control. Time was traveling unusually fast, or maybe that was just me. Then, as abruptly as it had begun I was falling. Everything around me was rushing to the surface but I was I was going down.

My hands absorb shockwaves as my bike bounces on the road. I grit my teeth against the pain.
The road is real and unforgiving beneath me, but it doesn't seem like it's there. My mind is still flying in the sky above me.

It comes to me slowly, as if from a far-off distance. The sounds of cheering and applause hesitantly reaches my shell-shocked, but very alive, form hunched on my bike. It was done.

And I was The Guy Who Did It.

First Rehearsal

Yesterdaywas our first rehearsal for the school production, Alice in Wonderland. It went from ten on the rainy morning of Sunday until two that rainy afternoon. To be honest with you, it wasn't that thrilling. The auditorium was freezing; I was so cold it was actually starting to hurt my poor digits and limbs.
If you hadn't gathered the fact by now, I got a part in the play, I am Gardener number 1.
I have one line or so, but I am in that same scene for longer, involved in non-speaking ways. I also am in the finale. I don't want to say too much about it, but this version of Alice is different to any I have ever seen before. It's quite quick, in comparison to the movie, and straight forward, so I'm not that worried it won't be ready to perform at the end of this term.
I am quite glad now that I got a small part, so I can get the experience and build my involvement over the next few years.
I think this version makes one of the concepts of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland very clear and understandable, which I like. After I heard the line that applies to it, I suddenly clicked, I hadn't realised that moral was hidden in this story.

Speaking of firsts, today we started term two. I hadn't seen seven am in two weeks, so it felt very strange walking to school this morning, cold and bundled up in my jumper, when I really should have been asleep. We had P.E. first period, during the first part of which I was understandably lethargic. We were walking the cross country track, and the cold water underfoot and refreshing breeze woke me up. It was weird going to back to school, but happenings of familiar change are usually so, if that makes sense. This day was a long one, so maybe it has affected me in a way I wasn't aware of, i.e., I'm so tired I'm not making any sense. I guess I should conclude this entry, before I confuse you and myself too much. I am glad to be back at school. Even though the holidays are fun, being completely lazy gets old and boring eventually; you need the busy days, early mornings, and hard work to make you appreciate those days.
I guess that's it from me today, though it's probably counted as tonight, as it is 6.25 pm and there is not one ounce of sun in the sky.
Goodnight.

Apple Pie

Last Thursday, on one of the many rainy days of the holidays, I asked my little brother what he would like to bake. He told me, somewhat enthusiastically, that he would like to make apple pie. It turned out that we had all the ingredients, so we went to the kitchen, and baked up a storm. Now, when my little brother says he'll bake with me, or that he wants to bake, what that means is that he will hang 'round in the kitchen for a while, making mischief, then will leave and play Lego somewhere. But anyway, I enjoyed baking the pie, and I had never tried making that type of desert before, and so I was pleased with myself for expanding my baking repertoire.
That pie turned out great, my family all loved it, and I've made it once again since then, especially for my Grandad, who came up for lunch yesterday. So, if you hadn't guessed this already, I have decided to teach you all how to make a very nice apple pie. I got the original address from www.dltk-teach.com/alphabuddies/recipe/apple_pie_recipe.htm but have changed the recipe after what I learnt when I was making it.

So, to make the pastry you need:
2 1/2 cups white flour
2 tbsp. sugar
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 cup cold butter, broken into small pieces or 1/2 cup margarine (it doesn't really matter)
1/2 cup ice water

Mix the flour, sugar and salt together. Be generous with the flour, because it's better to have more pastry than you need when covering the pie.
If you're using chilled butter pieces, 'cut them in' by placing them all in the bowl and crushing it with the flat side of a butter knife. If you're using margarine, rub it in using your fingers until the mixture becomes crumb-like. You might find you will need to rub in the butter as well as cutting it in, to make sure it is well combined. Stop as soon as it is completed; be sure not to overmix. Add the ice water gradually, you will find you might need more or less. Add it a few tablespoons at a time, until the batter turns to a soft dough that isn't sticky but holds together.
Lightly flour a surface and knead the dough (press it down with your knuckles) then divide it in half. Then flatten each portion into it rough disk, no thicker than an inch or so. Cover each disk in glad wrap and pop it into the freezer for half an hour. While the pastry is chilling I find it's the perfect time to prepare the filling.

To make the filling you'll need:
2/3 cup sugar
1/4 cup flour
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
Pinch of salt
6-8 medium sized red or green apples, (depending on how big you dish is and how much apple you want in your pie)

Pre-heat the oven to about 170'C (depending on your type of oven, but remember we want the pie to cook slowly, from the inside out, and by having the oven temperature too high, you will end up burning the crust and having under-cooked filling).
Mix together the flour, sugar, cinnamon (you can put a whole teaspoon in if you really like the taste of the spice) in a large mixing bowl.
Peel the apples, and cut around the core, then cut each quarter piece into thirds (I find this is a good size to have in the pie). Try and make all the pieces even. Mix the apples and the dry-mix together, and mix with your hands if need be to cover all the apples.
Now it's time to grease and line the pastry dish (you can use a low cake dish, or even muffin dishes if you want to make mini apple pies).

Grease the dish with marge or butter or cooking oil (the base ans the sides), then you can even line it with baking paper or sprinkle it with a little flour. Get the pastry out of the freezer, sprinkle flour or cornflour onto a fairly large, flat surface (I prefer cornflour because it isn't absorbed by the dough and makes it very flexible). Roll each disk out until it's large enough to generously cover the bottom of your dish. Hold it over you dish and press it to the bottom of the dish from the centre out to the edge. Leave a slight overlap of pastry at the edge. Using a fork, add a few air-holes (for lack of a better term) in the bottom of the dish. Rub a tiny bit of butter/marge to the pastry. Pour in the filling. Cover the apple filling with the other rolled-out disk of pastry and leave an overlap matching the one of the base. Put plenty of air-holes in the top of the pie so steam can escape during cooking. Press the two overlaps together with a fork and fold back onto the pie so no pastry is over the actual pastry dish.
Place in the hot oven. It will need to cook for 40-50 minutes, but check on it regularly, making sure the pastry isn't getting to brown or one side isn't cooking faster than the other.
When juice starts bubbling through the slits or air-holes, the pie is ready.
Leave to cool for about ten minutes, then cut and serve. This pie is particularly delectable with milk or vanilla ice cream.

Now you know how to make a very nice apple pie- enjoy!

Friday Night

Last night my friends Bobbie-Leigh and Francesca and I went out to this concert in town.
Bobbie was meeting a friend of hers there, and that friend's brother was the bassist in one of the bands playing. About 9 bands played, and they were all, by my guess, school-age. It was a tour, and a few of the bands were from our capital city. Since May is our country's Music Month, we thought this event was very appropriate.
Anyhow, this is what happened:
We were all going down in the same car, because Bobbie's mum was going to stay down there with us. After our drive down to our country's largest city, and a bit of frantic map reading, we had found the community centre where it was being held. We got there at about 6.30, so waited around in the foyer until the show started at 7. It was only $5 to get in, and upon entry we were given free stuff, and c'mon, everyone loves free stuff! The pack was full of badges, guitar picks, ear plugs, stickers and even some coasters. The first band up was Charm School Rejects, which was the band whose bassist's sister we knew. They were pretty good, and it's impressive that they were already writing and performing their own material at such a young age. Every other band that played performed some original material as well, and that is very encouraging.
They were very enjoyable to watch; there were seven of them on stage and they were all jumping in sync and dancing. We were a tad shy because the show had just started, and so just stood and watched, rather than moshing and head-banging.
We went outside after their set and found that everyone was relatively hyperactive.
We convinced ourselves that we would dance to the following band, but when we got there, the stuff they were playing was rather slow and the lead singer didn't even move. He just stood there, wearing his leather jacket, and sang with his hands in his pockets.
I'm not an expert on performing arts, but I think it is crucial to strike the right balance between engaging the audience and entertaining. It can be very boring if a band just plays for themselves.
The next band was a group of girls named Cross Eyed Mary, and they were very skillful and also perfomed well. We jumped and cheered for them, and got over the initial embarrassment of being the only ones doing so.
Over the next couple of acts, we really got into it, and pretty much mastered the art that is moshing (in our opinion anyway). Even if no-one else was dancing, we could pull it off because there were five of us (we had met up with a mutual friend of Bobbie and Steph).
Once, we even got a mention from one of the bands- exciting!
But dancing and the like is tiring and hot work, especially at our level of skill, so soon enough we were red-faced and puffing.
After a short break, though, we were back into it and I even won a shirt because I clapped the hardest for the sound-guy. Steph tried to tackle it off me, but was unsuccessful. I counted myself lucky, because the girl who caught the first shirt ended up on the floor while trying to keep hold of her prize.
Five became four when Erin (the mutual friend) was picked up, but there were still loads of bands to go.
One band, who I'd say were heavy rock/metal (think Rage Against the Machine), named Sir Psycho had a bassist wearing a Mini-mouse outfit, and a guitarist in purple skinny jeans, tartan shirt, Dock Martins and a to-the-floor, fluffy blue coat.
There was one more band after that one, but Steph had gone, so we decided to take our leave, too.
It was a fantastic night, I had such a blast. I definitely want to go to more things like that in the future.
I do recommend moshing to everyone, it's great fun and a good workout.

Art.

My mum is an artist; a painter. Lately, she has been running art workshops and lessons to ensure a stable income, which can be hard to come by in that certain career.
Today I attended one of those very lessons. Sadly, I had to miss my 9 o'clock cross country training in order to get down to the local art centre and set up. We also had to make a stop to buy some paint, which is quite often used in painting classes.
It was the lesson that taught your some fundamentals in painting, so that's why I chose to go. I was the oldest person there, and, embarrassingly enough, the majority of them were about ten. First off, we created a colour wheel. We were only allowed to use the three primary colours; red, blue, and yellow. We started off by painting one segment red, easy enough. From there we had to gradually lighten the shade until we painted a portion pure yellow. It was not as easy as it sounds. It was, in fact, extremely frustrating. I ended up just painting a red, a light red, three segments of the same shade of orange, then yellow. My mum said not be deterred, because some of the adults who had taking this class had walked out crying because they had found it so challenging. She also said that at art school they had been made to do a wheel of thirty-two shades, and students had been walking around with there head in their hands. We were only doing a wheel of sixteen shades. It is an exercise that really tests you; your concentration, patience, eye, and perception of colour.

Next we had to paint from still life. We were also meant to use our new colour-mixing skills to get the right shade of colour. We were painting vases of flowers. We didn't have to paint everything we saw, we could pick one part, or one type, of flower, but we had to paint it as it was. It as surprising how many people didn't do that. They painted what they thought a flower was, or what they wanted to paint. I tried my best to paint the flowers. I'm not too flash at drawing, so this was challenging and frustrating. It all just really annoyed me, to be honest. I could see the flowers right there, why couldn't I just put them on my canvas in paint?

There is some logic in art, but barely any facts. You can't just learn to paint in one two hour session.
Some people just see the world differently. I wonder what it would be like to see and think of the world as shapes and colours.
My painting wasn't a total disaster, and, my goodness, there were even a few parts I liked. When I didn't over think it, and spent most of my time looking at the flowers, the right shape appeared. I definitely have new found respect for my mother and what she does. She makes it look so easy. But I do believe she is one of the few that see the world in colour. Her clothes are organised according to colour. She has her drawer of oranges, and her drawer of browns. She dresses for colour too, depending on what she's in the mood for.

I think I am going to go to attend more classes and try and learn from my mum. I believe it is so important to keep pushing yourself and to go outside your comfort zone. It not only helps you develop and improve new skills, it helps your grow as a person. Developing the artistic side intelligence and skill, I can see, would be very beneficial.
Leonardo Divinci said simply in his five-point technique; learn to draw.